


A small and private place

by lafiametta



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Ficlet, M/M, Prompt Fill, accidental voyerism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-13 17:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafiametta/pseuds/lafiametta
Summary: He was just about to call out, to ask who was there, when he heard a strange muffled sound, like a noise being made and silenced all at once. Taking several curious steps forward, he turned around a tall stack of crates, only to stop silently in his tracks, astonished at what he saw in the faint outlines of the light.Pressed up against the door of the slop room were two men, the last Henry would have ever expected to find in such a compromising position.





	A small and private place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onstraysod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/gifts).

> Prompt: “Peglar catches Little and Jopson making out without their knowledge. He rushes eagerly to Erebus to tell Bridgens” (although, as you'll see, I exercised some creative license and went a bit beyond just “making out”)

Work on the Carnivale tent proceeded quickly: the men were in high spirits, eagerly awaiting the following night’s celebration, and needed little goading to assist each other in all that remained to be done.

Henry found himself among a group of ABs from _Erebus_ tasked with painting designs onto the canvas walls. Admittedly, had no real talent for such fancies, but he took to his role with enthusiasm, swirling clouds of unblemished white across wide blue skies, smudging verdant green patches meant to resemble boughs along the spindly limbs of trees. From time to time, he would briefly glance over to the other end of the tent where John was duly occupied in assisting Mr. Diggle in the reassembly of his stove, warm with anticipation for the moment when they would both be free to enjoy the festivities together. Plied by enough grog, he recalled, John’s cheeks would turn delectably pink; under its influence might he be persuaded to share in a dance or two — or to follow Henry to a quiet, more secluded corner of the tent?

He was in such a buoyant mood that he did not even mind when Mr. Des Voeux gave orders for him to return to _Terror_ and bring back a larger supply of rope, as they were running low and had already exhausted all the stores brought from _Erebus_. Just a few lengths would do the trick, the mate told him. He would not even need to take the sled.

So unencumbered, he made the trek in less than half an hour, at one point spotting in the distance a small party on their way from the flagship to the Carnivale site. He waved and they returned his greeting, lanterns beckoning as pinpricks of light in the darkness. 

Once aboard _Terror_, Henry quickly explained his errand to the men on duty and then made straight for the hatch, eager for the relative warmth of the ship. Aside from sickbay, the lower deck was almost entirely empty, most of its inhabitants either on watch above or busy with the construction of the tent, and he expected the orlop to be similarly deserted. The spare rope, he remembered, had been left just outside the sail room, looped into neat coils, and so he did not bother to bring his lantern with him as he carefully trod down the ladderway, the rough groan of the ice masking each of his steps. 

Skirting around stacks of crated provisions, he found his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the orlop far more easily than expected — until he realized that a small lantern had been left on the floor, softly illuminating the space around it. He was just about to call out, to ask who was there, when he heard a strange muffled sound, like a noise being made and silenced all at once. Taking several curious steps forward, he turned around a tall stack of crates, only to stop silently in his tracks, astonished at what he saw in the faint outlines of the light. 

Pressed up against the door of the slop room were two men, the last Henry would have ever expected to find in such a compromising position. 

It was Lieutenant Little and the captain’s steward, Mr. Jopson. 

He jumped back and quickly shielded himself behind the crates, praying that he had not been seen. Fortunately neither had appeared to notice him — rather, all of their attention remained entirely on each other as their lips met, again and again, with a kind of frenzied hunger that, before this moment, he would not have dared to associate with either man. The lieutenant — so cautious and outwardly reserved — had never struck him as one easily given over to passion, and even Mr. Jopson, for all his solicitousness, seemed perpetually careful to keep within the strict bounds of propriety. 

And yet judging from the way their bodies slotted against each other, hands desperately clutching at collars and waistcoats, propriety seemed to be the furthest thing from their thoughts. 

He stilled, knowing he had to find some way to slip away unseen, yet terrified that any movement on his part might easily lead to discovery. It betrayed all logic — in the eyes of command, they were the ones committing a wrong, not him — but it still felt as if he had stumbled into something entirely private, never meant for him and certainly not for the ears of command. 

A low moan spilled into the frigid air — from which man he could not tell — followed by a breathless reply. Despite every self-admonishment, Henry could not help himself, peeking just past the crates so he could catch another glimpse of them. 

By now, hands had migrated lower, skimming across the front of trousers, mouths still meeting while pale, nimble fingers began to search for buttons concealed along the thick wool fabric. There was not much to see in the shadows of the half-light; regardless, his breath began to turn heavy, for he knew exactly what was happening as they reached for each other, slipping past trousers and drawers until the prizes they sought were finally found. Both men gasped, hips bucking forward while their bodies pressed closer, quickly moving in a relentless and impatient rhythm. 

It was impossible for him to continue and yet Henry could not look away, blood surging hot in his veins while he watched the two men bring each other closer and closer to satisfaction. And how could he have possibly predicted what happened next, as Lieutenant Little suddenly dropped to his knees and drew the steward into his mouth, an act Henry would have more easily associated with a particular stripe of dockside trull than a senior officer in Her Majesty’s navy?

Mr. Jopson let his eyes fall closed, head leaning back against the slop room door, his hand coming to rest along the lieutenant’s dark hair. “Edward,” he breathed, just loud enough for Henry to hear across the orlop, “_oh _— please, I need… _please_…”

It was far too much for Henry, the icy air around him growing far too warm, shame coursing through him as his own desire stirred to life within his loins. He turned away, the sight of the two men no longer filling his vision, but he could still hear them, the small desperate sounds of their coupling. With every stifled groan and rustle of fabric, he willed himself to remain motionless, to keep from slipping his hand down to ease some of the rough ache at the front of his trousers, even though the temptation grew stronger with each passing moment.

And when the steward began to plead incoherently — for what, it was difficult to tell — Henry could not help but imagine himself in Mr. Jopson’s position, not with the lieutenant of course, but with John. How might it feel to be surrounded by the warm, willing depths of John’s mouth, to be feasted upon by lips and tongue and teeth? And what if he himself were to play the lieutenant’s part, Henry wondered, biting against his lip to distract from the fiery torment of his own need — would the sensation of another man be too foreign or would he take to it with pleasure, as happy to be on his knees as Lieutenant Little was? 

His thoughts grew so intoxicating, urging him toward even greater heights of fantasy, that he did not immediately realize that the orlop had grown quiet, both men clearly having muffled their final sounds of passion. There was only the sound of their breath, slowly returning to its regular rhythm, and the sweep of clothing as it was straightened back into place. They kissed once more — a fleeting brush of the lips — and then departed up the ladderway, just one at first and the other following after a respectable pause. 

Henry quietly exhaled, glancing up and down the orlop to reassure himself that he was now entirely alone. They had taken the lantern, leaving him in the darkness. For a moment he stood, still unsure of what to do with what he had just discovered — for this was undoubtedly not the first time that the two men had met in secret — until he remembered his original errand and why he had been sent to _Terror_ in the first place. Gathering up several armfuls of rope, he made his way back up to the deck, heartily relieved to catch sight of neither the lieutenant nor the steward as he did so. 

The air outside was bracingly cold, a welcome balm for his overheated, tightly-wound body, and as he trudged the distance back to the Carnivale tent, he found his thoughts had likewise solidified into something resembling coherence. Lieutenant Little and Mr. Jopson were good men; they deserved to have their secret kept safe. And so he would share what he had witnessed in the orlop with no one, not even John. 

It would not stop him, however, from pulling John aside during the celebration and from there finding some small and private place where they might try to reenact what he had seen. Henry smiled and began to walk with greater haste, his thoughts now entirely on the night to come. 


End file.
